


Sanguine Lullaby

by Raziel12



Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: F/F, FangRai, Vampires, flight, no sparkly vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:26:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raziel12/pseuds/Raziel12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Oerba Yun Fang is faced by a series of bizarre murders. The calling card? Every single victim has been bled dry. After months of investigation, she finally has a suspect. But can she really believe what the evidence tells her? Can an old legend really be haunting the streets?</p><p>She gets her answer when the culprit comes to pay her and her sister a visit. Fang was wrong about one thing. There wasn’t one murderer. There were two. Sisters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanguine Lullaby

**Sanguine Lullaby**

The whisper of spring rain greeted Detective Oerba Yun Fang as she stepped out of the diner and ran to her car. It was already dark, but the gathering wind told her a hundred different things. A storm was brewing, the kind that swept in from over the plains, swept in fast and hard and rattled the windowpanes.

It was only fitting.

A storm of another kind had been brewing. For three months, she’d worked her latest case. For three months, the bodies had piled up. But she had an answer now, or at least, she had part of one. 

The papers had a name for the killer: the Oerba Ripper. It was a gaudy name, and not a day went by without another tawdry article splashed across the front pages. It made Fang sick. Nothing sold papers better than murder. The Ripper was a rock star, the latest in a long, long line of criminals glorified by the press for the express purpose of profit.

Every few nights another body turned up. Each one so far had been bled completely dry. There was no connection at all between the victims, and not one of them had put up a fight. They’d all gone quietly to their deaths, their faces drawn into one last expression of contentment and serenity. What the police had somehow been able to keep away from the press was how the victims had been drained of blood.

Each victim had puncture wounds on the throat spaced just far enough apart to match the distance between the canine teeth of an adult woman.

A vampire – the press would go ballistic once they found out. A serial killer sold papers. But a serial killer that affected the methods of a vampire? Hell, they’d run off five special editions and sell out for weeks. It would become the latest sensation and add another layer of innuendo and intrigue to a case that already had far too many for Fang’s liking.

She’d taken a lot of heat for her problems with the case, but she wasn’t the only one. There was a whole damn taskforce on it, and nobody had gotten anywhere. 

Or maybe she had gotten somewhere. Old police records and case files had been kept deep beneath the previous police headquarters. Those headquarters had burned down forty years ago, but she’d stumbled across a few of the surviving records several days ago. This wasn’t the first time someone like the Ripper had come to town.

The same thing had happened fifty years ago and fifty years before that – and fifty years before that. The descriptions were sketchy, but there were no doubt about it: a killing every two or three days, the victim bled dry with no hint of a struggle. It always began on the first night of spring with the scent of flowers in the air and the pitter-patter of rain against the pavement.

It couldn’t be a coincidence, but it couldn’t be the same people either. Were there copycats, or was it something worse, something more organized? It could be a cult. Fang had stumbled across a few of those during her time on the force. There were still people who prayed to the old gods and followed the old ways. Oerba was one of the oldest cities in the world. If there was ever a place for the old ways to linger – the old, bloody ways – it was here. In the grand scheme of things, what were two centuries of progress to millennia of ritual and story?

Now if only she could convince her superiors to give her theory a chance. It was a long shot, but maybe a long shot was what they needed. She’d built her career on long shots, built it on the feeling in her gut that had never led her wrong. And her gut was telling her that there was something wrong about this case, something she’d missed, that everyone had missed. 

But her superiors hadn’t listened. Nobody had. And the bodies had continued to come, smiling gently back at the police.

Fang drove back to the apartment she shared with Vanille and eased into the underground garage. As she rode the elevator up, it stopped on the ground floor. The rain was far from gentle now, and the rumble of thunder echoed through the foyer. Rain splashed against the glass doors of the foyer in large, angry drops that came in almost sideways.

The doors of the elevator slipped shut, and Fang leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. She felt heavy, old and heavy. Her bones ached and her muscles throbbed. The darkness behind her closed eyelids swam with shades of black and white. She was tired, so tired. It wasn’t a physical thing. It was something deeper. It was the case. She’d spent years waist-deep in all the muck and grime of Oerba, but she was neck-deep in it now and sinking fast.

Maker, when had she stopped seeing the world in colour and started seeing only shades of grey?

The short walk from the elevator to the apartment door felt like a mile uphill against the wind. The door loomed up in front of her, and suddenly the slightly crooked numbers on the front didn’t feel homey so much as claustrophobic. She’d worked so damn hard to carve out a living here, and for what? All she had was a small apartment and more bad memories than she knew what to do with. At least she had Vanille. Her sister would make everything better, would be the warm sun that drove all the rain and clouds away.

Fang unlocked the front door, shuffled inside, and then locked it behind her. She tossed her wet coat onto the hook beside the door and reached down to unbuckle her holster. Vanille hated it when she walked around the apartment with a gun although she understood why Fang wanted – needed – to have it close by.

She was halfway across the living room when she stopped. She hadn’t noticed it until now, hadn’t noticed it over the hiss and spit of the rain against the windows and the thunder that shook the panes. It was quiet in the apartment, far, far too quiet. Her eyes narrowed, her pulse quickened, and she buckled her holster back on.

The door had been locked when she came in. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just the case getting to her the way it had been getting to her for weeks now. But Vanille was always home early on a Thursday. She hated to miss her favourite television show – a show that was on right now.

Fang drew her pistol. The tiredness faded, every sense on high alert, driven by the simple, basic need to make sure that Vanille was okay. She crept down the corridor, as quiet as a ghost, fading into the shadows that spilled out of each open door. The bathroom light was on. A peal of thunder rocked the building to its foundations. The light flickered and died. The breakers must have tripped. The only illumination now came through the window: the pale, ugly orange of streetlights.

Nothing else moved as she made her way down the corridor. She checked each room she passed. Nothing. Her breathing fought to quicken, but she tamped it down, kept herself quiet. Every sound was magnified. Her own breathing was the loudest thing in the world. A shiver ran through her. If there was someone here, they had to have heard her. There was no way they could have missed the air rushing past dry lips and the squelch of wet shoes on hardwood floors.

There was a flash of movement at the end of the corridor. She spun, gun at the ready, and then stopped. It was only a mirror, and there was no one in it except her. 

Chest tight with something that wasn’t quite fear, Fang reached Vanille’s room. The rain outside beat a frantic rhythm against the side of the building, yet beneath it was another sound. It was a quiet whimpering and moaning, a sound that hinted at pain then faded into the most languid sort of pleasure. Was that really Vanille in there? There was another sound too, quiet, out of place. It was the sound of someone sipping almost daintily, but with increasing thirst, on thick liquid.

Was Vanille sick? Fang put one hand on the door and pushed it open.

She froze in the doorway. A flash of lightning lit the room for a split-second, burned the scene there into her eyes.

Vanille lay cradled in the arms of a pink-haired woman, her head thrown back, the other woman’s mouth latched onto her neck. The pink-haired woman’s throat shifted slightly. She was drinking.

Fang’s gun came up, but her arm was wrenched to the side. A graceful hand snuck up her wrist and crushed her gun into scrap before the weapon was tossed aside. Impossibly strong arms pinned Fang in place and trapped her arms against her sides.

“It would be so rude to interrupt, detective.” The voice in Fang’s ear was hot, liquid silk. A shiver ran through her. A spring coiled in her belly as ice and fire pooled in her gut. Every muscle in her body tensed and then relaxed, lulled somehow by the promise in that voice, the dark, awful promise of something wicked. “Can’t you see they’re busy?”

Fang struggled. The arms around her were slim and toned, but there was no way they should be able to hold her in place. But they were like steel around her now, utterly unyielding. She opened her mouth to cry out, but not a sound left her lips. A velvet chuckle seemed to come from all around her.

“Quiet, detective.” The voice was in her ear again, but there was steel beneath the silk, a latent menace that touched the part of her that was all instinct, a relic from those far off days when mankind had feared the dark. The words were a command, one that Fang’s body obeyed despite her best efforts. “Good girl. Now, be still.” Fang’s jaw clenched. Her body trembled, held in place by the same otherworldly power that kept her silent.

She was aware now, so very aware, of the body pressed up against hers from behind. Full breasts pushed into her back, smooth, silky hair brushed against her cheek and collarbone. Soft lips grazed a teasing path along her ear and then down, tracing the nape of her neck. A quiet sigh followed, the rush of air as the woman behind her breathed in Fang’s scent and savoured it.

“You don’t have to worry about your sister.” The voice would have been kind if it wasn’t for the thread of carefully veiled menace woven into every syllable. Obey, the voice promised, and Vanille would live. Fight and she would die. “As you can see, she’s enjoying herself.”

Fang tried to move, to say something, do something. Instead, all she could do was watch Vanille come apart in the pink-haired woman’s arms. Vanille gave a quiet sigh, soft, gentle, needy, and the other woman pulled back. Fang caught a glimpse of long teeth before they sank back into the tender flesh of Vanille’s throat.

Vanille moaned, glazed eyes fluttering shut as her body arched up against the other woman. The woman gave a low groan and clutched Vanille tighter, pushing her leg up against the juncture of Vanile’s thighs. Vanille was wet and ready, the thin material of her shorts soaked with her desire. The other woman was drinking Vanille’s blood –all of the Ripper’s victims had been bled dry – and Vanille wasn’t fighting it at all. 

Vanille’s eyes opened, heavy-lidded and drugged with pleasure. Her body continued to twitch weakly. The other woman pressed her knee up harder between the red head’s thighs. Her touch grew rougher, more ardent, as she drew Vanille’s pleasure out. Vanille could only clutch weakly at the other woman’s head, her fingers lost in pink hair. Her eyes drifted shut again, welcoming. 

“We can make it feel so good,” the voice whispered in Fang’s ear. “Now, stay here. Don’t move.”

The arms around her vanished, and Fang saw her captor for the first time. She had long pink hair, blue eyes like stars and fire and ice, and the features of a marble statue. She wore a black pantsuit, the garment cut to remain somehow stern yet feminine. With almost predatory grace, she went to the bed and put one arm around the other pink-haired woman’s shoulders. She drew her away from Vanille.

“Now, now, Serah, don’t forget how fragile these humans are. You’ll break her if you drink any more.” The words were spoken gently, in the chiding fashion of a mother to a daughter – or an older sister to a younger one.

A stray thought echoed through Fang’s head: the puncture wounds hadn’t always been the same distance apart. It was a small difference, but now, it all made sense. Two killers. Two sets of teeth.

Serah, the shorter of the two, shuddered and drew back. A stray drop of blood lingered on the corner of her lip. Her expression was almost pained. “But she tastes so good, Lightning.” Serah moaned and quivered, eyes roaming unabashedly over Vanille. “So very good.” Beside them, Vanille looked to be asleep, her chest rising and falling. “And the way she felt…” Serah bared her teeth. She had fangs.

An amused chuckle left Lightning. She reached up and wiped the drop of blood off the corner of Serah’s lips. Looking straight at Fang, she tasted it. “You missed a spot, Serah. But you’re right. She does taste good.” Her lips curled, and she smiled at Fang. Her smile was cold and perfect and absolutely terrifying. “Come here.”

Fang’s body moved of its own accord. She sat down on the bed next to Lightning.

“You’ve been looking for us, detective. You’ve done a good job too. I can’t quite believe that those records survived the fire.” Lightning smiled again, a small twitch of her lips. “But now you’ve found us. Or rather, we’ve found you. I’m going to say a few things, and you’re going to listen. We’re going to leave soon, detective. But we’re going to come back. What happens then is up to you. If you drop off the case detective, if you let go of your little theory, then it will go exactly like tonight. Your sister will wake up tomorrow a little tired, but she’ll wake up. If you keep pushing, detective, if you keep looking for us, we’ll bleed her dry.” Lightning’s laugh was a breath of winter in the middle of spring. “Do you understand?” 

Fang tried to nod, but her body refused to move.

Serah leaned in, breathing deeply. She giggled. “She smells good too, Lightning. We have plenty of time. Maybe you could have a little taste.”

Fang’s pulse raced as she realised what Serah meant.

Lightning tilted her head to one side. She moved closer and breathed in Fang’s scent. A shudder ran through her. “Perhaps I could.” Fang saw hunger in Lightning’s eyes, a deep, terrible hunger. Lightning held Fang’s gaze. “Think of this as an incentive, detective.” 

And then Fang’s back was on the bed. Lightning’s eyes gleamed in the twilight above her. The rain came down outside in sheets. The thunder spilled across the horizon. Then Lightning’s lips were on her throat. There was the silken caress of soft lips and a tongue and the tiny pinprick of two fangs. Then there was only pleasure, so much pleasure.

Fang could move again, but all thoughts of fighting had vanished. Heat raced from Lightning’s mouth to every corner of Fang’s body. Every sip that drew out her blood sent white-hot pleasure through her veins. Fang was burning, burning, burning, and she didn’t care. Her back arched, and she moaned, groaned, whimpered, begged as Lightning drank her fill.

A hand unbuttoned Fang’s shirt and roamed freely over her taut belly before it delved lower, finding and unbuckling her belt before it pushed her trousers down and cupped her through the damp fabric of her panties. Fang almost sobbed, it felt so good, and then the hand brushed aside the flimsy cloth covering her.

Maker!

Long, slim fingers slipped into Fang, caressing wet, velvet walls. Fang bucked against Lightning’s fingers, her breath rushing out of her in wordless, broken gasps as the other woman matched the rhythm of her drinking to the thrust and stroke of her fingers.

Fang’s hands clutched uselessly at something – anything – and found themselves buried in Lightning’s hair. She heard a throaty chuckle against her neck – Lightning – and everything else faded away. She heard thunder, but she wasn’t sure if it was even real.

There was only pleasure, the greatest pleasure Fang had ever known. She’d never been taken like this before – taken so utterly and completely – but it was intoxicating. She was dying, she knew that, drop by drop, but she didn’t care. Ecstasy thundered through her. She peaked and then peaked again and again and again until all she could do was lie there, broken, utterly and completely, in Lightning’s arms as her body jerked and thrashed, and at last fell still, too weak to do anything but twitch and quiver. 

It could have lasted a hundred years, Fang wasn’t sure, but finally – finally – Lightning pulled away. Her breath was harsh, ragged, and streaks of blood ran down her chin. She wiped them away with one hand and then licked her hand clean, trembling. Lightning stumbled back, off the bed.

“Enough.” Lightning growled. “Serah, we’re leaving.”

Serah’s eyes widened.

“If we stay, I will either drink her dry or turn her.”

“Oh.” Serah grinned. “She must have tasted very good then.” She licked her lips and reached for Fang.

Lightning snarled.

Serah raised one eyebrow and pulled back. “If you didn’t want to share, all you had to do was say so.”

Lightning came back to the bed. Fang stared up at her, too exhausted to do anything. She ached all over, but in the best possible way. Gently, so gently, Lightning cupped her cheeks and pressed a chaste kiss against her lips. Fang tasted her own blood.

“Remember what I said, detective. Take yourself off the case. Drop your theories. Then our next visit will go just like this.” The words fell off Lightning’s lips like rain onto a parched desert.

Then Lightning and Serah were gone.

Fang’s eyes closed.

Sometime later, Fang woke up. It was morning. Had it all been a dream? No. The haunted look in Vanille’s eyes told her everything. It was the same look Fang saw in the mirror. It was the look of someone who’d seen hell and tasted heaven. 

Fang took herself off the case. She dropped her theories.

She told herself it had nothing to do with blue eyes and pink hair, with the whisper of fangs against her throat and the rush of heat through her veins. She was burnt out, that was all. 

X X X

One year went by, one year of waking up from fevered dreams of fingers deep inside her and soft lips against her throat. For so long, she’d seen the world in grey, but her dreams were all in colour: slashes of pink, flares of blue, and storms of red.

It was raining on the first night of spring when Fang fell asleep. The rain was a quiet pitter-patter against the window. She closed her eyes and waited for a promise to be kept. There had been fifty years between attacks, but not this time. Her gut told her to be ready. She left her bedroom window open.

There was storm outside when she awakened. Rain pooled on the floor beside her window. Blue eyes gazed down at her with unfathomable hunger and desire. Pink hair as soft and fine as silk rustled against her collarbone before her blanket was pulled aside. Fang was naked under the blanket. 

“You made the right decision, detective.” There was a flash from the storm outside, and Fang saw that Lightning was naked above her. She was perfect, all alabaster skin, toned flesh, and womanly curves – a warrior goddess or perhaps a demon.

Lightning sank against Fang, skin to skin. Her lips settled into the curve of Fang’s throat. “We have all night this time, detective. I intend to enjoy myself.” The tips of Lightning’s fangs scraped against Fang’s throat and then plunged deep. Fang arched up shamelessly. It was dark in the room, but there was colour everywhere, so much red. Pleasure coiled inside her, building, building, building. “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.” Lighting smirked against Fang’s throat. “You taste far too good for that.”

Fang sighed, surrendering. “Fang,” she whispered. “My name is Fang.”

Lightning pulled back, eyes gleaming, blood on her lips. She chuckled quietly. Her hands wandered over Fang’s breasts, belly, and thighs. She ran her fingers across Fang’s sex and then plunged them in, conquering, claiming, and taking. Fang was wet around Lightning’s fingers, wet and ready like she had been for a year.

“You’re mine then, Fang.” Lightning sank her teeth into Fang’s throat and drank greedily. Fang came apart in her arms, lost in every way. “Mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I neither own Final Fantasy, nor am I making any money off of this.
> 
> Let me tell you a story (well, I’ve told you one already, but go along with me for a second). Once upon a time, there was a kid who read Anne Rice in primary school. This kid was also a big horror fan who read every story about vampires they could get their hands on. This story is what happens when that kid grows up and writes fan fiction.
> 
> The rise of the sparkly vampire is a relatively recent phenomenon. And while I have absolutely no problems with people enjoying whatever fiction they want, my perspective of vampire’s has much more older roots. From Bram Stoker’s Dracula to Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla, vampires have always possessed a certain danger and sensuality. They will kill you, bleed you dry, and they will make you beg for it, make you crave it even though you know what it means. Anne Rice is a more recent writer whose best work also embodies this view of vampires (pretty much everything up until Memnoch the Devil is gold… after that, yeah… not so great). I wanted to have the same kind of feel and atmosphere in my story. After all, many of the earliest gothic stories were also unabashedly sensual as well (horror and sex have something of a long and complicated relationship in fiction).
> 
> Several people have asked me for a story with vampires and werewolves in it. I couldn’t fit werewolves in, but I hope the results are satisfactory. Lightning as a vampire, especially one with such a dangerous air about her, seems perfect. Fang, the tough but world-weary detective, is easy prey. Fang hasn’t really lived in years, and now she is living even if it means almost dying. Life is, after all, the most addictive drug of all.
> 
> And yes, for those of you who like Verah, you can assume that Serah paid Vanille a visit too.
> 
> Will there be a follow up? I have no idea. I basically threw the whole story together when I went out for a walk (I was supposed to be thinking about the next chapter of The Vestige, but yeah… didn’t happen). As for the name of the story, sanguine has several meanings. Nowadays, it’s often used to mean something optimistic or positive. However, it has older meanings too: bloody or bloodthirsty. As you can imagine, the meaning of the title is a bit of both. And what about the lullaby part? Well, death is the longest sleep of all, isn’t it?
> 
> So yeah, stuff like this is what happens when I put my gothic fiction hat on as opposed to my science fiction hat or slice of life hat (I need more hats). I won’t lie, part of me wanted to do a cute, little story about vampire Diana complaining about how blood bank blood doesn’t taste as good as the fresh stuff. 
> 
> I also write original fiction. If you're interested, you can find a link to that in my profile.
> 
> As always, I appreciate feedback. Reviews and comments are welcome.


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